


No One's Gonna Save Him

by atlas_white



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Angst, Canon Death Mention, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlas_white/pseuds/atlas_white
Summary: A troubling headline convinces Jerome Squalor to leave his self-imposed imprisonment in his unhappy apartment at 667 Dark Avenue, too late to do anybody any good.





	No One's Gonna Save Him

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just after _The Vile Village._  
>  Written in 2015.

 

It was when he heard what had happened in the Village of Fowl Devotees that Jerome Squalor finally left his huge, awful, empty apartment at 667 Dark Avenue. Honestly, he should not have stayed up there by himself nearly as long as he had, but he had been unable to force himself to leave it. 

In a way, it felt like to leave would have been defiant, and Jerome couldn't bring himself to do anything like that. He wasn't afraid that someone would come and take away the apartment he'd promised he'd always keep-- as long as he paid for it, nobody could do that. But since the Baudelaire children hadn't wanted to run away with him and forget about Count Olaf and Esmé and the two Quagmire triplets, he felt like he ought to just stay up there.

It was better this way, he thought. Up here, no one could hurt him or tell him what to do and he would never need to avoid an argument again. In a way, it was a self-imposed imprisonment in his own unhappy home. 

Esmé had left him, and that was probably for the best. Definitely for the best. She had never been very kind to him-- she'd never even kissed him except in front of her friends, when she would brag about her rich husband before sending him away so that she could brag about her own wealth and power. He did not understand why she needed a rich husband when she had so much money on her own, but he did not want to argue. And he did not understand why she took all the money at the In Auction when the two of them together could buy most of Dark Avenue, but he did not argue about that either.

Their whole marriage had been based on her telling him what things were going to be like and him not arguing, from the day he met her-- the very same day she told him to marry her. It had never been right, but he had never wanted to argue. Looking back, he thought with shame that Jacques would be disappointed in him. 

He wondered how he was doing. He would have given anything to be able to go back to him, to kiss his face and apologize for being so spineless, and then curl up in bed with him and never get back up again.

As it was, Jerome had been spending a lot of time in his bed-- which he had never shared with Esmé, as she'd insisted on separate bedrooms and never let him into hers, either-- but that was because he was bored and lonely and unhappy. He wanted to stay there because he couldn't face what was outside, because a part of him felt he didn't deserve to. He slept and dreamt of happier days spent with that wonderful man he'd been too afraid to spend the rest of his life with. He'd even moved the telephone onto the nightstand, so that when people called to tell him what was in and what was out, he could politely tell them that Esmé had moved out, and thank them for telling him the news, all without ever having to get up.

He left his bedroom because he was hungry. It was Sunday, and he remembered that when he saw the calendar hanging over the counter in one of the many kitchens in this ridiculous flat. He said a little prayer, because it was Sunday, and then he stepped outside to fetch in the newspaper. He didn't read it right away, though. He set it down on the counter and went on to make breakfast.

Cooking felt good, so he ended up making a lot more than he'd intended, a meal of several courses that could have fed a party, if only he had any friends he wanted to invite. Quite a few of his friends had died recently in very sudden and violent ways, and that was actually part of the reason he hadn't wanted to get up. With no bossy, cruel, demanding Esmé to distract him, Jerome couldn't think of much besides the people he'd lost-- not only the dead, but the Baudelaire children, goodness only knew where they were and how they were doing.

Maybe he ought to call Jacques. It had been too long since he'd last spoken to him. The last time he'd even written to him was to send his condolences about Lemony, and he'd never gotten a response. He'd thought that maybe he'd moved away and nobody ever bothered to forward his mail. Or maybe he was too distraught to write.

He finished his cooking, he ate some of what he'd made, and then he put the leftovers away, tossed the newspaper onto his bed, and returned to the kitchen to scrub almost feverishly, focusing only on the tasks at hand. It was all he could do to keep off the urge to go back to bed and do nothing. Feeling inspired, he swept the floors of several rooms in the apartment and dusted the furniture. He made his way all the way to the rooms that the children had slept in, and then sadness fell over him once again, like a cloud blocking out the sun.

Jerome peeked into the library. It was truly so pitiful that even Klaus Baudelaire couldn't find anything interesting in it. It was depressing, really, that small collection of books on what was in and what was out. Jerome remembered all the books he used to have, before he'd let Esmé come and take them away all because he hadn't wanted to argue. There had been so many lovely books-- even a few from the Snicket library, books that Jacques had given him. Those were treasures that he would never get back.

Then he looked into the room that had been Violet's. The workbench was dusty and looked very much unloved. With no tools to work with, how could Violet build things? Jerome wished he could have argued to Esmé that, regardless of whether they were in or out, tools were something Violet had needed and they would have made her happy. He felt the same way on looking into Klaus's room, where there was no paper or ink to write with, and Sunny's, where there was nothing hard to chew on. He missed the children. Being a guardian was something that made him very happy, and he thought he'd gotten along rather well with the three siblings. 

He knew what the problem was, of course. He hadn't been willing to fight for them. He had never been willing to fight for anyone or anything; not the children, not even Jacques. Not even for himself, really, and that might have been even worse. He couldn't have even been accused of being properly selfish-- just spineless and cowardly and foolish. He had even asked the children to turn their backs on their friends. It had been despicable of him. Their mother would have been horrified.

With a heavy heart, he abandoned his cleaning and returned to his bedroom. He sat down on the bed and picked up the newspaper with a sigh, flopped down onto his back across the mattress, and, after a moment of lying there, breathing slowly, unfolded the paper to look at the headline.

Jerome stared at the headline in disbelief. Then he sat up abruptly, and read the headline again, and then again, and then again before finally moving on to the story, and the three-page spread that went with it. He'd read it twice before he was on his feet, getting dressed properly for the first time in weeks and combing his hair and just barely remembering to grab his wallet before running through the vast apartment for the door.

\--

On that day, Jerome Squalor left that lonesome apartment on 667 Dark Avenue and took to the road. He had no idea what he was really rushing toward. He only knew that he could not sit at home when the children he should have been taking care of-- Beatrice's children, the children of one of his very dearest friends-- were out there by themselves and in trouble. 

_The Baudelaire Butchers!_ the headline had proclaimed. They'd murdered a man named Count Omar in the Village of Fowl Devotees and now they were on the run.

Jerome couldn't understand it at all. It was Count _Olaf_ who'd been after the children, not Count Omar, and if somebody killed him it seemed like they would have been doing the world a big favor. Jerome knew that the Baudelaires wouldn't have done it, though; they couldn't have done it. They were good children, innocent children, children who had looked to him for help and protection. He owed it to them to get to the bottom of this. Although he did hope it wouldn't call for any arguing.

He arrived in town after a long car ride followed by a long train ride followed by a long bus ride followed by a long walk. By then it had gotten rather dark, and Jerome was grateful when at last he saw the sign that told him he'd reached the Village of Fowl Devotees, which he couldn't help but think was a rather odd name. He had no idea where to go from here, though, and that presented another problem.

Jerome wandered briefly around town, looking for a place to stay. There didn't seem to be an inn, and no one he asked was willing to put him up for the night, even for money. They seemed to be very xenophobic, Jerome thought. They did not like the idea of having a stranger among them. Some of them muttered something about _Count Omar_ and the children, but he wasn't able to question them about it before conversations were declared over and doors were shut in his face, and goodness knew he didn't want to argue.

He was already very tired and he was ready to give up hope of finding a place to stay. He found a bench and sat down on it, wondering if it would be okay if he spent the night here. He would feel like a vagabond, he thought. That might be exciting.

He was so caught up thinking about this that he did not notice the shadowy figure that approached him, as quiet as a man in an old suit sneaking up on someone sitting on a bench.

"Jerome? Is that you?"

The voice was soft, but it badly started Jerome, and he jumped in his seat and made an unflattering noise.

"Wh-who's there?" He stammered, looking up at the man. "Who are you?"

It was impossible to make out the man's features in the dim light of the moon, and unfortunately the village had no streetlights. Jerome could tell that he was wearing a hat, though, and it made such a black shadow over his face that it looked like he didn't even have a face. He seemed to wearing an old suit, but it was largely covered by a long coat that made his shape indistinguishable. He could have been anybody. He could have even been a woman, if one with a particularly deep voice.

"Shush," the man shushed him in a whisper. "It's me; Lemony."

" _Lemony?"_ Jerome repeated, too loudly. "You're _alive?"_

He was overjoyed at the prospect. He'd heard rumours about the younger man's death, and was thrilled to see that they'd been greatly exaggerated. The Daily Punctilio had given no cause of death in the obituary they'd run for him, but as Jerome had read it for the second time and begun to weep in earnest at the loss of this man he'd loved like a brother, Esmé had told him ever so casually she'd heard it was an accident out on Hazy Harbor-- something about Lemony getting tied up and thrown off a ship, she'd said.

"Shush!" Lemony repeated, in a more forceful whisper. "Come with me."

Jerome followed the younger man to a secluded area just outside of town, where an old lantern hung on a rusty pole. It wasn't electric, Jerome noticed distantly, but illuminated by a flame, like in the old days; he wasn't sure why it struck him as much as it did. Regardless, its flame cast a soft orange light that showed Lemony's face, when he lifted his head enough to keep the black shadow of his hat from obscuring it.

All at once, Jerome felt the joy of seeing Lemony rapidly fade away, water down an open drain. Lemony's eyes were bright with tears, and his face was reddened and streaked from weeping. He knew then in his gut that something horrible had happened, something that would affect him too, though he didn't know how it could. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe as he waited to hear what Lemony would say.

Lemony didn't say anything at first. After several long moments of total, terrible silence, he started to weep again, so deeply that it made Jerome's chest hurt just to hear the sound. Hesitantly, he took the younger man into his arms and let him sob into his shirt, trying to offer what comfort he could as the minutes ticked slowly by, tears soaked through his shirt, and Lemony was unable to calm himself down.

At last poor Lemony started to try and tell him what was wrong, what had happened. It was so difficult for him to speak, and the words came quiet and choked, but Jerome heard enough to understand their meaning, and all at once the breath left his body, left him feeling as though his world had come crashing down and shattered all around him. 

_Jacques. Dead._ It was inconceivable.

Jerome held Lemony tightly as he began to weep as well, and silently he made a promise. It was a promise to Lemony and to himself and to the children, wherever they were, and more than anything, it was a promise to Jacques. He would not stay at home afraid and unwilling any longer. He would expose the man who'd done them all such harm, taken out of the world the single greatest man Jerome had ever known.

He would write a book to show the world, and become what his friends would come to call an "injustice expert". Though to him it would always seem like the wrong title, because the truth was, he was an expert on the subject of injustice long before he ever started to write about it. ☆

 


End file.
